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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056928">New Year's Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofsparrows/pseuds/aceofsparrows'>aceofsparrows</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) &amp; Related Fandoms, Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Modern AU, Shirbert Song Project 2020, shirbert!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:42:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofsparrows/pseuds/aceofsparrows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” He asks.<br/>“I want to publish a book,” I reply, grinning at him.<br/>“Another one?” He chuckles, kissing my forehead.<br/>“Always, darling. Always.” </p><p>* * * </p><p>When Anne writes the story of herself and Avonlea, something is missing-- something that's been under her nose the whole time.<br/>Modern au songfic w elements of Anne with an E &amp; Anne of the Island, written for the Shirbert Song Project 2020</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Shirbert Song Project 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>New Year's Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Songfic inspired by Taylor Swift's "New Year's Day". Written for the Shirbert Song Project 2020</p><p>NOTE: the excerpts near the end that are in italics are taken directly from the last chapter of "Anne of the Island" by LM Montgomery.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>There's glitter on the floor after the party</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>You and me from the night before</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What’s your New Year’s resolution, Gil?” I ask, kicking my feet lazily back and forth as they dangle off the edge of the balcony.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t know.” His hazel eyes look unusually dark in the low light, and I can’t read him as well in the dusk. He’s looking at me like I have the answer, but I’m not even sure I know the question.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I want to publish a book,” I say, turning back out to the city that sprawls in front of us. Someone on the balcony of the building across the street is laughing loudly, a sparkler fizzling brightly in her hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Happy New Year!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Everyone inside is cheering, but out here, it’s still strangely quiet. I feel like something should have changed with the new year, but I don’t feel any different than I did two minutes ago.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Happy New Year, Anne,” he whispers, and I look at him. He’s smiling that signature Gilbert Blythe smile, and our noses are so close I can see the very faint freckles that are scattered around his eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Happy New Year, Gil,” I whisper back, and wonder why I suddenly want to kiss him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Don't read the last page</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I stay when you're lost and I'm scared and you're turning away</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>I want your midnights</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you going home before spring term starts?” He asks the next morning as we’re cleaning the flat. Diana’s practically asleep at the kitchen counter where she’s nursing a mug of coffee, and Roy is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he went home to Kingsport last night.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t know,” I answer, setting another couple glasses in the sink. “Marilla texted and told me I don’t need to if I don’t want to, but I worry about her and Rachel. Davy and Dora are a handful and they’re not exactly as young as they used to be.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He nods. “I was thinking of going home myself. I haven’t seen Delly in months.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I stop, looking at him. “We don’t have enough money for both of us to go, Gil.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know. And that’s why I’m going to call Bash and Delly instead, and you’re going to go home and see Marilla.” He smiles just slightly, and I sigh.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Always the martyr, Gilbert Blythe.” I chuckle, shaking my head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You wouldn’t let me be anything else, Anne. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, her very own knight in shining armor.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I know he’s joking, but it makes me sad for some reason. When did I stop believing in a savior and start believing in myself? I can’t remember.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well, I won’t go until tomorrow. I want at least one more late night with you-- both of you-- before I go.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And even though I included Diana in that statement, the look Gilbert gives me says he knows what I meant.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>We’ve never been good at being apart, him and I. Always shoulder to shoulder, neck and neck.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And yet, we could always be closer.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>You squeeze my hand three times in the back of the taxi</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>I can tell that it's going to be a long road</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>I'll be there if you're the toast of the town babe</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Or if you strike out and you're crawling home</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re going to do wonderfully, Anne.” He holds my hand tightly, and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he’s even more nervous about this meeting than I am.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know, I know. But it’s my first pitch, Gil-- I have to be nervous.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>We watch the city ramble by outside the taxi windows in silence until Gilbert clears his throat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anne?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I turn to him. “Yes?” Sitting side by side like this, we’re very close, and I’m suddenly keenly aware that we’re still holding hands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If you get this…” He doesn’t seem to be able to finish his thought; there’s something new, something heavy and important sitting in the air of the cab now, something bigger than just me and my book deal.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, Gil?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I just want you to know that I’m here, I suppose,” he finishes, eyes skirting mine. “I want you to know that I’ll always have your back no matter what. If you get this book deal, I will gladly sit and read whatever you write, and I will tell everyone I know to buy and read your book when it comes out. I’m yours, Anne, I always have been.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>I’m yours, Anne, I always have been.</em> I remember that night on the bridge the summer before we went to Redmond, and Gilbert’s quiet, desperate proposal. This moment is softer, more resigned; Gilbert is pledging not just love, but loyalty and steadfast support.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know, Gil. Thank you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The taxi stops, and I let go of his hand reluctantly, clutching my manuscript to my chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Good luck, Carrots,” he calls as I slide out of the cab, and I raise a hand in farewell as it pulls away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The big, important building looming before me, I have the creeping, tingling sensation that my life is about to change forever.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Don't read the last page</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I stay when it's hard or it's wrong or you're making mistakes</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>I want your midnights</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s not finished,” I warn Gilbert when he takes the manuscript from me. Four hundred and forty nine pages of my soul, printed on stark white copy paper; it’s both incredibly rewarding and horribly terrifying to see it out here, in the world, and, most importantly, in Gilbert’s hands. It’s been almost a year since I got the book deal, and so much has happened. Sure, there have been days when I’ve struggled with what to put down on paper, but for the most part the words have come freely.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After all, I’ve been writing a very personal version of the truth, and it’s not as if I’ve had to manufacture much for the sake of the plot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you sure you want to read it now?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek with a sudden onset of nerves. “It’s not finished, and I’m sure it’s not very good; it’s only the first draft, after all…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Gilbert gives me a look. “Alright, Anne. I can tell you don’t want me to read it, so just tell me this: what’s it about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I swallow. “Me. Well, me and Avonlea, that is. You said it yourself, Gil, sometimes the best stories are those you’ve lived.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He nods. “And am I in it?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I purse my lips. “Yes.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And you said it’s not finished. Why?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I sigh. “I’m not sure. I suppose I just feel like there’s something missing, some sort of looming last act that needs to happen before I can end it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He shakes his head. “Then I’ll read it when it’s done,” he says with an unexplainable sadness, and hands me back the manuscript. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the ending.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Somehow, I get the feeling he’s not just talking about the book.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The book remains unfinished, even as we near the end of our time at Redmond. Gilbert’s looking ahead to graduate school, I’m finishing my thesis, Diana is marrying Fred… Our lives are beginning to peel off and part from one another, as much as I hate to see it. Life is taking us by the collar and forcing us to grow up, finally, and yet my book remains unfinished.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Going through a bunch of boxes at the back of the hall closet at Green Gables during spring holiday, I find a stack of polaroids. Glancing at the dates scribbled on the bottoms, I can see they’re from that summer Gilbert and I spent working before Redmond, me here in Avonlea and him in White Sands, spending every moment we had free together on the weekends.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Gilbert, looking shocked that his ice cream had fallen off its cone. Me, laughing at something he’d said just moments before, my head thrown back in such a natural way and my smile so wide that I don’t even care that the angle is unflattering. Gilbert and I, heads tilted together, sitting on the low fence at the edge of the Blythe-LaCroix orchards, grinning. The date at the bottom tells me that it was taken the day we found out I’d been accepted into the Advanced Narrative Writing class I’d so longed to take, and Gilbert had gotten that scholarship he’d so needed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>We are so very young, so very happy, and so very alive.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Matthew would have been so proud of you,” Marilla says the next evening, not looking up from her embroidery. I stop reading, staring at her from across the sitting room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Really?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She shakes her head. “You were his world, Anne. From the moment he brought you home all those years ago, you were all he had ever wanted. He would have been so, so proud of you and all you’ve done.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I smile. “Thank you, Marilla.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m proud of you too, Anne.” She looks up this time, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears in the lamplight. I set down my book, uncurling myself from Matthew’s armchair to go to her, and give her a hug from behind. She holds my hands tightly, kissing my knuckles. “I love you, Anne. You know that, right?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know, Marilla.” I say, kissing her mostly-grey-haired head. “I love you too.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I’m on my way home from a day trip to Glen St. Mary to see Diana when Marilla calls with the news. It’s been a month and a half since I graduated, and I’m trying to finish my book and decide whether I want to move to Toronto in the fall.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then Marilla calls, and I have to pull over to the side of the road and ask her to repeat what she just said because I can’t believe it’s true.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Gilbert Blythe is dying.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The words “terrible infection” and “caught much too late” rattle around in the empty caverns of my brain, and my breath is fast and hot. Gilbert can’t die! Gilbert is, well, Gilbert! He’s studying to be a doctor, for goodness sake, he can’t die!</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I thank Marilla for telling me, hang up, and immediately call Bash. He answers on the first ring, voice tight and tired. Visiting hours are over for the day, he tells me. I can’t see Gilbert until tomorrow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The drive home is a blur. I don’t eat dinner, just take the stairs two at a time up to my little gable room with its apple blossom tree and view of the endless PEI sky.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I unplug my laptop, sitting on my bed and opening the word processor as soon as the computer is on. Suddenly, for the first time since I began telling it, I know how my story ends.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>And I will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The sun has just come up when I finish. It’s messy, and there are sure to be more than a few spelling mistakes, but it’s done. Exhausted but still wired, I slip my laptop into my shoulder bag and tiptoe out of my room, careful not to wake Marilla and the twins. Downstairs, I can hear Rachel snoring from Matthew’s old room, and I close the door silently as I slip out into the cool morning air. Hopefully the library will be open this early; if not, I’ll go to the post office and print it there. According to the Carmody Area Hospital’s website, visiting hours start at eight, and I have to be there when they do.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I have to give Gilbert my book.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The library is open, thank God, and the elderly librarian gives me a knowing smile as I set up my computer on top of the printer and start printing. When it’s done, all five hundred pages of it, I pay her generously for the paper and ink, calling a thank you as I leave.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then I’m driving.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s eight o’clock on the dot when I march up to the nurses’ station and demand to know where Gilbert Blythe’s room is, but the woman working must recognise the desperate light in my eyes because she doesn’t give me more than his room number and a sympathetic smile.<em> 317…</em> I dance from foot to foot in the elevator, willing it to ascend faster; I would have taken the stairs, but they’re on the other side of the hallway.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>314… 315… 316… </em>Its door is like all the others, but the nameplate and number are what make my heart beat faster. <em>317, Blythe, Gilbert.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s sleeping. His face is pale and sunken with illness, and he’s lying so still that I can feel my heart in my throat. But he’s only sleeping; I can see his chest rise and fall just slightly with his shallow yet present breath, and his eyes move just a little like he’s dreaming as I sit quietly in the chair beside his bed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, Gil,” I breathe, taking one of his hands. “How did it all come to this?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyelids flutter, and he opens his eyes, turning his head just slightly to look at me. There’s a moment of confusion, but then he recognises me and the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly in a slip of a smile.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey, Carrots.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey, Gil.” I shift the manuscript in my arms, gesturing with an elbow. “I finished it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He smiles a little bit wider. “Really?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah. And… I want to read you the end,” I say slowly. I need him to know… I need him to see what he means to me. I need him to hear all the words I’ve been too blind or shy to say in the last six years.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I need to tell him I love him in the only way I know how.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I clear my throat, turning to the very last page of the manuscript. Gilbert raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I take a deep breath, then read, voice trembling.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“ <em>‘But I’ll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne,’  said Gilbert sadly. ‘It will be three years before I’ll finish my medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls.’ Anne laughed. ‘I don’t want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want you.’</em> ”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I look at Gilbert, and he smiles. “Diamond sunbursts and marble halls, eh? You give me too much credit, Anne.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“But what I-- or at least, me in the book-- said is true, Gil,” I say, bringing his hand that’s held in mine up to my cheek so his fingers brush the soft skin below my eye. “ I just want you. Even if I don’t have my book, or a fancy apartment in Toronto… I will always want you, Gil. I will always need you, Gilbert Blythe.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I kiss his knuckles, and he smiles. <em>I will always need you, Gilbert Blythe.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>There's glitter on the floor after the party</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>You and me forevermore</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Another year gone,” Gilbert sighs, fingers playing idly in my hair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Another year older,” I agree, leaning my head on his shoulder.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” He asks.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I want to publish a book,” I reply, grinning at him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Another one?” He chuckles, kissing my forehead.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Always, darling. Always.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think this is gonna be the best year yet, Carrots,” he whispers.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I rest my forehead on his. “And why is that?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Because I have you, Anne. And I’ve always been my best with you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And I with you, Gilbert.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Don't read the last page</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I stay when it's hard or it's wrong or we're making mistakes</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>I want your midnights</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think I want a fall wedding,” I say as I’m rinsing out glasses in the sink.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, really?” Gilbert asks from the counter behind me, and although it’s supposed to be sort of casual and taunting, I can hear the surprise in his voice. This is the first we’ve talked of marriage, and he’s not even halfway through grad school.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes. Autumn has the most complimentary color scheme for us both, and then we can have it in the orchard with all of the trees full of apples.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Not spring?” Gilbert muses. “We could have apple <em>blossoms</em> then.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Maybe,” I concede, and I glance over my shoulder to smile at him. “Maybe…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>We get married the spring Gilbert finishes graduate school. There are apple blossoms aplenty, and I wear simple, elegant white. Marilla and Bash both cry, and Delly is the flower girl.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Our cake tastes sweetly of possibility.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>We lose our first child. Joyce Blythe, born five weeks before her due date, dies two days after she is born.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I don’t write for a year.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Our second child is born the night before Gilbert takes his exam to earn his doctorate. We name him James, after Gilbert’s grandfather, and Matthew, after my adoptive father. He is healthy and pink and smiling, with red hair like me and Gilbert’s eyes.</p>
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  <p>He is the first of many.</p>
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  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>And I will hold on to you</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
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  <p>It’s New Year’s Eve. The kids have gone to bed, and I’m proof-reading a book for a colleague. Gilbert’s out on call, and the house is quiet and still. Struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia, I set down my computer, picking a well-loved book off the shelf and settling back into my chair. <em>Kindred Spirits,</em> the cover reads. <em>By Anne Shirley.</em></p>
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  <p>I flip to the back of the book, running my fingers over the last few lines, remembering the first time I saw these words on paper.</p>
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  <p>Remembering the first time I read them out loud in that quiet hospital room so long ago.</p>
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  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
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  <p>
    <em>Anne laughed.</em>
  </p>
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  <p>
    <em>“I don’t want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want you. You see I’m quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more ‘scope for imagination’ without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn’t matter. We’ll just be happy, waiting and working for each other—and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now.”</em>
  </p>
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  <p>
    <em>
      <strong>Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere</strong>
    </em>
  </p>
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  <p>The last line has always been my favorite, and I’ve read it to my children-- our children-- countless times with reverence and satisfaction.</p>
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  <p>
    <em>Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew.</em>
  </p>
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